“I heard W. W. say to-day,” I continued in the same vein, “that she is spending the honeymoon on the Riviera; you are not implying, are you, that it was you who sent her there?”
“At any rate, if it hadn’t been for me,” he replied, taking a good bite, “she wouldn’t be on the Riviera and there wouldn’t be a honeymoon.”
I became alarmed. “Take that apple out of your mouth and tell me what you mean.”
The mysterious boy of the so open countenance, as he told me the queer tale in bed that night, was superbly unaware of its queerness, and was more interested in standing on his head to see how far his feet would reach up the wall. He far exceeded the record that had been left by Neil.
“I wasn’t the one who made her fond of the chappie,” he said by way of beginning. “She did that bit herself.”
“Very generous of you to give her that amount of choice,” I conceded.
“But she stuck there,” said he. “It was W. W. who told me how she had stuck. W. W. has a sister called Patricia. Their mother’s name is Mildred. That is all I know about her,” he added with great lightness of touch, “except that I worked the marriage.”
This was the first time I had heard of W. W.’s having a sister.
“He doesn’t speak about her much,” Tintinnabulum explained, “because they are twins. I say, don’t let on to him that I told you he was a twin.”
So far as I can gather, W. W. keeps the existence of his girl twin dark from boys in general in case it should make them think less of him.